Arse. Possibly Bollocks.

…..and, additionally c*nting arse.

I do so deeply apologise, but I find it very hard to keep all the swear inside under heavy provocation. I shall do my best to use the Foul Mouthed equivalent of some nipple pasties and spring out for the odd well-positioned star symbol in place of some of the more colourful vowels, lest I lose my entire readership in one pissy fit of Oral Soap Requirement.

Do forgive me, good polite Ladies and Gentlemen of the Internet at large, but it’s going to be a bit blue coloured around Chez MII today, on accounts of I have to swear my angry bleeping head off to feel just a little bit better about the fact that I cannot identify, locate, and manually strangulate the prick(ess) responsible for A: having acquired a driving licence from the inside of a cereal packet, B: purchased a big-ass SUV, C: maintained a blissful ignorance of the dimensions of their container-on-wheels and D: used the Non-Standard Audible Parking feature to exit a supermarket space.

In other words, some dozy bint took the liberty of gleefully backing into my well-parked shiny new Twin-Mobile hard enough to crumple the rear bumper into what my crystal ball tells me shall become an expensive insurance claim in my near future.

Then, given a thorough examination of the general vicinity of my windscreen wipers revealed a distinct absence of anything resembling paper or a note, I can only assume that they mysteriously found themselves short of a pen, paper, command of the English language, and most critically any witnesses. So they duly f*cked off on their merry way home.

I found out about it the hard way when pushing Saag and Naan back to their chariot in the cold, dark piddling rain.

I mean, they could have at least written ‘I’m sorry’, in the damaged paintwork with their keys or something. Or, since they clearly had no intention of doing the right thing ‘Sucks to be YOU’. You know, since I’m going to have to pay to have the arse end of my poor car resprayed, as it is.

I do believe that I have cracked this curse out once before, on another memorable occasion when I returned to my car Avec Twins in the Pissing Rain to find it violated by someone else I can only hope meets with a nasty but very well deserved accident in the near future:

May his testicles rot and his willy shrivel up and fall off at a publicly embarrassing moment.

May his underwear be forever hole-y and his socks pair-less.

May his pockets be eternally torn, and his wallet fall down a particularly unclean public loo, right after someone with virulent gastro has done an untidy number two. May there also be no remaining toliet paper.

May his pubes spontaneously combust and giant zits occupy his nose.

May especially malodorous dog crap affix itself intimately to the underside of his trainers.

May week-old chewing gum find it’s way into his hair-do.

May he be infested with particularly ineradicably lush ear-hair, a nasty case of jock itch and several creative verrucas.

May an extensive infestation of intestinal worms make his bottom itch no end.

May an unusually well-aimed albatross with dysentry shit right down the inside of the back of his shirt.

 It would serve him right.

Substitute your own interpretation of the most likely gender. I’m an equal opportunity whiner, deeply wishing I believed in Car-ma, just so it could run over somebody’s Dog-ma. Or, even better (since I quite like dogs), THEM.

Fuck it all.